


tell me which one is worse

by CallMeBombshell



Category: Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: Canon Queer Character, Gen, Introspection, M/M, david shepherd is a puppy, idek how to tag this, jack benjamin is so damaged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 19:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: He first sees the picture in the paper when he's letting himself out of the hospital, doctor's orders be damned, bandage on his forehead and cuts on his hands and bruises all along his body, and one of his aides hands him the paper and says, "Guess you're gonna have to meet-and-greet the guy who saved your life, sir."





	tell me which one is worse

**Author's Note:**

> this probably isn't actually finished, but i think it does well enough on it's own just as it is, so i'm posting it because i've been sitting on in as it is for ages, and maybe by posting it i'll somehow motivate myself to finish it. basically unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> title from _you should see me in a crown_ by billie eilish

Jack lies half on one side in the dirt, the scope of his rifle digging slightly against his eyebrow as he looks through it, surveying the rise just ahead of him with mounting restlessness.

They're a quarter mile from the hot zone on a recon mission, his squad out in front with support units waiting to the west and south, and an air unit backing them up while they investigate a section of the line that Gath is moving in on, Goliaths rumbling ever closer across the muddy hills and between the slim trees, making a hard push for the land Gilboa had taken back two years before.

They've been halted in this position for nearly an hour, hidden in a shallow dell on the back end of a tall hill covered in spindly, nearly-bare trees. Their intel says there's a group of three Goliaths just over the rise they're sheltering behind, but so far they've had no hint of their location, seen no glimpses of them, heard no engines, and it's making them all slightly anxious.

"I don't like it," Matthews says. "It's too quiet."

"You always think it's too quiet," Peterson grumbles, beside him. "Anything above a whisper is too loud for you, old man."

"Cut the chatter," Jack orders, re-adjusting his grip in his rifle.

Privately, he agrees with Matthews on this one; Goliaths are big, loud, and vaguely terrifying. They're not subtle, and they're nearly impossible to hide. They were built that way on purpose, Jack thinks, made huge and hulking and roaring in the hopes that anyone looking at them would turn tail and run in the face of twenty tons of metal and fire and death.

_ Not a bad tactic, _ he thinks, even though this silence is, somehow, even worse. Perhaps he'd gotten used to the noise, gotten used to the endless grating rumble of the tanks, gotten used to the sounds of Gath shelling the border, trading bullets and bombs with the Gilboans day and night.

It's been a noisy war, and that's why this sudden quiet is worrying.

"Adams, Peterson," Jack calls softly, laying his rifle down where he can reach it as the two men make their way over, staying low, and hunker down next to him. Jack spreads their map across his knees, hand-drawn lines and marks across an aerial photograph. "Our targets should be in the valley just over this ridge," he says, pointing with a finger. "We should have some sign of them, and I don't like that we don't."

"You want us to go take a look, sir?" Peterson asks, mouth set in a grim line; for all his comments to Matthews, Jack knows the silence is bothering him, too.

"Scout out the top of the ridge, see what you can see on the other side. I want radio silence as much as you can, and don't do anything to draw attention. You see anything, anyone, you get away as fast as you can, but don't fire unless you absolutely have to. We don't want anyone knowing we're here."

He doesn't say  _ be careful _ because their job isn't to be careful, and telling them to be only means that he'll feel twice as guilty when someone gets hurt or the mission goes wrong because they were more worried about being careful than they were about doing their jobs. He knows they hear it in his voice, though, his unsaid command to come back safe and sound. He may be young, and this may be his first command, but he knows these men, cares about them in his own way, and he wants to make sure they all come home from this war.

"Yes sir," Peterson says, and then he's up and moving, crawling carefully, low to the ground with Adams following silently behind. Jack watches their progress up the hill through the scope on his rifle. Behind him, he can hear the rest of his men shifting restlessly, the rustle of their movements almost lost in the sound of the breeze drifting through the sparse leaves above their heads.

"It's still too damn quiet," Matthews mutters again.

  
  
  


It's five minutes until Peterson and Adams reach the top of the rise and disappear from sight. Another few minutes pass, and Jack does his best to breathe steadily and not count the seconds as they pass. Their intel appears solid, but Jack can't help the feeling in his gut screaming that something is wrong, and every moment that goes by without word confirming the enemy's position just makes it worse.

Four minutes (and really, it's only been four minutes?) and the comm channel crackles, softly, and Jack cups a hand over the earpiece on his comm link, straining to hear properly as Peterson's voice comes over the line, whispering frantically.

"Pull out! No tanks, there's a whole company here, they're in the trees all along the ridge, we're outgunned, we need back-gkk-"

He hears the crack of the rifle twice, once from the other side of the ridge and again, echoed in his ear through Peterson's comm, now gone dead and static.

Jack whirls around, motioning to his men to fall back. They all have comm links, so they've all heard it, he knows; he can see it in their eyes, the way every single one of them has gone suddenly tense and wary. Matthews, beside him, is staring with wide eyes.

"They shot him," he says, like he can't quite believe it, like he's never heard someone shot before.

" _ Move, _ " Jack hisses, hands tightening on his rifle and eyes scanning the trees as he moves back, carefully. His men are retreating carefully, all eyes and weapons trained on the rise and the trees around them, watching for the enemy. Jack keeps his eyes on the ridge Peterson and Adams had gone over as he joins his men further down the hillside.

"This is Alpha Six calling for backup," he says into his comm. "We are outnumbered and surrounded, need assistance."

There's silence on the other end of the line.

"Repeat," Jack says, "this is Alpha Six, requesting immediate assistance!"

The line remains dead. There isn't even static; he might as well be speaking into empty air.

" _ Fuck! _ " Jack growls, ripping the comm link from his ear.

"Listen up," he says, voice low, hearing his men go still and silent the moment he speaks. "Line's dead, backup's not coming. We're on our own."

There's a silence, and then someone says, voice low and clear, " _ Fuck. _ "

And then all hell breaks loose.

Later, Jack only remembers it in bits and pieces: the gunfire from the ridge driving them back, and then suddenly there were bullets flying from behind them, cutting them off, and then he couldn't tell anymore where they were coming from, aware only of the screams and shouts of his men, faint and muffled over the sound of gunfire, and the thump of bodies as they fall. A bullet clips him across the face, leaving a line of fire across his forehead and the world tilts suddenly sideways and he's falling, falling and things are going black; he's unconscious before he hits the ground.

Jack catches only brief snatches of time between being knocked unconscious and waking up in the hospital in Shiloh. He remembers his rescue only as a few brief moments of intense pain, his entire body on fire as he stumbled across the mud, held up by cold, trembling hands on one side, and steady, warm ones on the other.

He doesn't remember a voice or a face, just a brief impression of gold, but whether that was his rescuer or the lights of camp or daylight or his mind playing tricks, he can't be certain.

He first sees the picture in the paper when he's letting himself out of the hospital, doctor's orders be damned, bandage on his forehead and cuts on his hands and bruises all along his body, and one of his aides hands him the paper and says, "Guess you're gonna have to meet-and-greet the guy who saved your life, sir."

He's supposed to be headed home, to the palace, to be fawned over by his mother and regarded with a mix of sternness and relief by his father; he expects Michelle is going to want to hug him and ask him every few minutes if he's really alright. And normally he'd want the attention, normally he'd be happy to be the object of his parents’ undivided focus, but this time it comes with a price he doesn't want to have to pay.

Because he knows how this has to go: he'll return home, the battered, weary warrior, and he'll greet his rescuer, his saviour, and he'll be genial and smiling and thankful, and they'll wine and dine the boy, parade him around for the kingdom to see, and then they'll put him aside, somewhere comfortable and out of the way, and life will go back to normal.

But now, now there's this picture staring at him from the papers, his rescuer, some nameless boy who no one knows, standing with his back to the camera as he faces down a tank. Jack can't even see his face, as no idea what he looks like except for the vague impression of height and strength under standard army fatigues, and it could be anyone.

Except that suddenly everyone does know him, and it's his picture on the front page and his name in the headline, but it's Jack's life that was at risk, his life which was nearly lost, just like the men who'd died for him, the men he'd lead, unknowing, into a trap, men who'd died because his backup left him stranded and alone, and it should be him on the front page, it should be his men, but it's not, and-

And now he has to meet this man, this boy, this David Shepherd, but all Jack wants to do is scream.

"We're not going to the palace," he says, tapping on the window between him and his driver. "We're going to the clubs. The usual circuit, you know where to start."

His driver nods, turns, and Jack settles back, watches the streets and the people go by out the window, closes his eyes against the picture and tries to forget that he ever needed rescuing at all.

David Shepherd is both exactly and nothing at all like what he expected.

Jack sees him for the first time in one of the side waiting room in the palace, staring up at a picture of Silas with trepidation chasing something like awe across his face. Jack's late, dragged only partly-sober from a club by Tommasina an hour ago, but he's showered and changed (casual, nothing formal, because he's already having to act for this boy, he's not going to do it in full dress costume until he has no other choice, dammit) and he's got coffee in his hand, lounging on the couch like the lord of the manor.

But there's Shepherd, all wide eyes and open face and for all of Jack's carefully-cultivated comfort in his own home, he still feels unsettled, put off-kilter like this was a surprise, like he didn't have time to prepare, like he didn't know this was coming, and he blames it all on Shepherd.

"You cannot be what God made you," Silas hisses, and there's ice in Jack's veins, freezing in his heart even as he knows his face must be showing so much, because he's always been able to control it, control how he looks and what he shows, but never with this, never this one thing, this thing that's so much a part of him. He never wanted it, never asked for it, but he can't lose it now, can't lose this part of him that's let him breath, let him feel like he's more than just another puppet, just another chess piece.

And he's worked so hard, tried to play the game the best he could, but it's clearly not enough, because Silas should never have known, should never have even suspected, because Jack has been careful, has covered his tracks, has covered everyone else's because he couldn't always trust them to do it themselves. And it hurts, too, to know that if he'd just been a second son then none of it would have mattered, because it shouldn't matter now, shouldn't matter if he looks at women and feels nothing and looks at men and feels his blood race in his veins, because he could still be a good king, he knows, could be a good man, but how can he ever be that when he can't be himself?

But it doesn't matter now. Because Silas has never looked at him with love, or with pride, or with anything but cool appraisal, waiting for Jack to be better, to be more, to be something he's never known how to be.

Jack hears all of Shepherd's impromptu speech over the radio, standing in the command center like he has any business at all being there, hears Shepherd's voice crack and break as he talks about blood and death, hears the honest desperation in his voice as he says,  _ tell me that it's enough _ .

And for the first time in his life, Jack wonders if maybe being a fighting soldier for the rest of his life isn't what he really wants, after all.

He sees it coming from a mile away, the way his mother arranges for Shepherd's ticket to be given away, arranges to have her daughter's heart broken almost before it had started to blossom. He tells Shepherd as much, albeit coded and layered under false sympathy and postured goodwill. It's funny, almost, the look on Shepherd's face, disappointed and hurt, like a kicked puppy, and his mother's words come back to him,  _ He's a cocker spaniel _ , and isn't that just it, Shepherd so naive and so trusting and so in awe of the way their world works but in the end he doesn't know anything.

"If she wanted you there," Jack tells him, "you'd be there." Except that that's not true, it's never been true, they've only ever been given as much power as their parents let them have; it's why Jack's spent so long carefully straddling that line between loyal son and free man, partying enough to feel like sometimes he can breathe, but never enough to lose everything.

It's a lesson that he means for Shepherd to learn, that he has no power here, that he needs to reach out and take what's given before it can be snatched away again, take what he can and grip it tight, because there will always be someone stronger pulling at the other end.

"This is the greatest city in the world," he tells him, "provided you don't wait on my family to show it to you."

He's surprised to find that he means it. It's more truth than he's given anyone in a long, long time.

  
  
  
  
  


He tells Shepherd he's taking him out (offers, really, even though he knows it wasn't phrased that way, even though he knows Shepherd wouldn't dare say no, but if he had, if he had said no), means to leave him dazzled and dizzy and confused, maybe hopes somewhere in a corner of his mind that he'll come out of this having tarnished the golden boy just a little, made him something smaller, something dirtier, something closer to real and human and imperfect.

Instead, Jack makes a few calls, to his base commander, to his private security firm, to an old pilot friend who owes him a favor, and then he's on the landing pad with Shepherd, watching the puppy jump and wag his tail as his friends hit the ground running, laughing and happy and a million miles away from the pomp and ceremony of First Night, and Jack almost lets himself think that this is what he intended all along.

Except that there's a strange, tight feeling in his chest, something not quite cold but not quite warm, either, and he doesn't know where it's come from or what it means, only that he happens to be looking just as Shepherd turns, his smile lighting up his blue eyes (and when did Jack even realise they were blue?) and the something-feeling tightens further and his breath catches for a moment and his hands are trembling slightly, and-

Shepherd turns away again and Jack can breathe again, resists the urge to reach up and rub at his chest.

The first party is mild, more boozing and schmoozing than dancing and drugs, but Shepherd's eyes are still wide as he watches Jack pair off his buddies with the first few gorgeous women who walk by.

"That's gotta be fun," Shepherd says, laughing, turning to Jack as they lean against the bar.

Jack smirks, "What?"

"Being you," Shepherd says, and there's something so honest in his voice, like he really does believe that this, the parties and the girls and the booze, is the way Jack lives, that it's all dancing and drinks all around, all the time.

It's actually a little sad, he thinks, and then realizes he's speaking.

"It's a mystery," he says, looking at over the pool. "My parents did whatever they did long ago, and then they had sex and had me, and now people care what I wear and where I go."

And isn't that the way of it, Jack thinks, this grand accident, that he happened to be born into this, the wealth and the fame and the power, but this is what he uses it for, free drinks and getting past velvet ropes. He's got greater ambitions, of course, bigger plans and dreams and wishes, but there's a sense of duty to those things that tinges them more serious, more somber.

This, though, this is fun, and Jack thinks, sometimes, that this is what he'd be still, even if he hadn't been born with the titles and the name and the money; that he'd still be a party boy, living the high life at the top of every guest list in Shiloh.

"Is it always like this?" Shepherd asks, and Jack smiles, because he hasn't seen anything yet.

"Oh, it only gets better," he says, grinning around his drink, "if you're even still interested."

And somehow he's slipped into something else, the smile on his face more like the one he uses in places like this when he wants a new drink or an easy fuck, and he's using it on Shepherd now, feels it coiling dark and heavy in his stomach like he thinks Shepherd's easy prey, and this isn't at all how this was supposed to go tonight.

But there's something in Shepherd's eyes, something answering, maybe, and just a little dark, and Jack's never been one to worry about how things go in places like this, even now, even when he suspects Silas is keeping an even closer eye on him than usual. Because he's certain, now; certain of that little spark in Shepherd's eyes, and Jack thinks,  _ Fuck it _ ; if they're both going to be put aside on tonight of all nights, then at least he knows no one's watching.

"I'm not a saint," Shepherd says, like he's trying to remind Jack, even though Jack's the only one who's never thought he was, who never put him on a pedestal, never even pretended to, only ever lied to his face behind practiced smiles.

But he's not lying now, not faking the lazy curl to his lips when he says, "No, I'm guessing you just lack for opportunity."

Shepherd's looking at him with something that isn't quite relief, isn't quite gratitude, but it's slightly less than awe, less than wonder and amazement, and Jack find himself thinking,  _ This is real. _

"The thing about royalty," he tells Shepherd, like it's a secret, like he's imparting some great wisdom, a peek behind the curtain, "is there's no end to what people will do to get close to you. Like it'll rub off and suddenly make them less obscure. Something in the way my mom set up the monarchy," he says, shrugging slightly. "They think we're something other than human."

"So they give you things," and wonder of wonders, Shepherd looks a bit uncomfortable, like he's not sure whether to be disapproving or not.

"Whatever they have," Jack agrees, not a little sardonically, although he's sure it mostly goes right over Shepherd's head. "The waters part and dignity crumbles. I have a room in my apartment just for that," he goes on, nodding like it's something he's proud of, and maybe he is, just a bit, but mostly it's because it still amuses him, the power he can have over people without lifting a finger, just by walking into a room.

"It's all there," he goes on, "things you can do, or have, or have done to you." And there's a girl coming his way, his first of the evening, and this, maybe, is where it all starts, because he's not going to move, he's going to stay here, standing next to Shepherd, until either Shepherd moves away or the girl drags him off.

"I can't even begin to tell you how deep it goes," he says as she draws near. "And I've dug. But I can promise you,” he says, smirking lazily like a promise, “if you start digging, you won't be thinking about my sister after."

And Shepherd's looking dazed again, stunned and swept up and along for the ride, and Jack can see it in his eyes, the hurt at Jack's last words warring with the awe creeping back across his face, and Jack laughs into the girl's kiss, sliding his eyes away only as Shepherd clears his throat, awkward and unsure and still smiling like he's not sure how to stop, even if he wanted to.

  
  
  


Half an hour later he's watching across the pool as Shepherd stands beside the DJ, grinning at whatever musical feat she's showing him. She's coy, leaning just far enough to make her interest known without being pushy, and Jack's nursing a fairly healthy sense of admiration at her skill. Shepherd doesn't even seem to have noticed, smiling and laughing like a kid with a new toy.

Watching Shepherd, he feels almost proud; he's not shy anymore, and he's lost the stunned look he'd had before. He looks like he's having fun.

"How quickly they grow up," Jack says, aloud, smiling. And then--

"I wasn't sure you'd be here."

And Jack can't help but look up, feels his smile slip off his face and he looks away again, something not entirely unlike dread settling cold and heavy like iron in his stomach.

"Last minute thing," he says, and pointedly doesn't turn to look as Joseph comes to stand beside him, close but (thankfully) not touching. "Came with friends."

"You've gotta do your thing," Joseph says, all understanding, and Jack had always liked that about him, no fuss, no trouble, he just got it. Right now, though, it makes his stomach turn.

"Yeah."

"See you after?" Joseph says, and it should be presumptuous, should be demanding, should be the sort of thing no one could say to a prince: the way he sounds like he already knows Jack will say yes (and, really, he does, because Jack's never turned him down before, but that's just it, that was  _ before _ , before Silas knew and before he'd brought Shepherd here, and before it all became something different).

But that's just Joseph all over again, quiet and confident but never cocky, and Jack's not expecting the way it hurts when he says, "Not a good idea."

"Why." And it's not even a question, because Joseph's got no reason to question it. "There's no eyes on you tonight," Joseph adds, and then, "Look, I know the drill. I'll meet you later," because Jack's never been particularly cautious about them, never had to bother because Joseph's plenty subtle all on his own, and Jack's never had anything less than a perfect plan to make sure that everything goes smoothly.

And Jack thinks he might just be able to get away, might be able to make promises he won't keep in order to get Joseph away from him, because Joseph would never tell, and Jack can't do this right now.

And then Joseph looks at him and says, "I miss you," and that iron ball in Jack's stomach goes cold and burning all at once and he can't move, can't quite breathe.

Something must show on his face, because Joseph turns, smiling, and says, "What is it?"

He follows Jack's line of sight, still trained on Shepherd because he doesn't know where else to look, knows that looking at anyone else is only calling for attention, calling for notice. Jack's never wanted to be invisible before; he doesn't know what to do.

"Is it the guy you came with?" Joseph asks, and he's still smiling, like maybe he thinks that it's just a case of Jack with a crush, but it's so much worse than that. 

Because this is coming too close to saying things that Jack will never let be said, fear worming its way down his spine and up his throat and it takes him a moment to remember how to breathe, taking a moment to school himself hard and  _ mean _ before he turns. 

"If I didn't call you,” he says, as coldly as he can, “there's a reason. Take the hint."

He's careful to keep Joseph in his periphery as he turns to walk away, afraid of what he might do if he could see his expression in full. He tells himself it's a strategic redeployment to a better location; that doesn't stop it from feeling more like running away.

He makes his way around the pool towards Shepherd, gathering up his friends along the way. Shepherd's face lights up when he steps up beside him, says, "Jack," enthusiastic and grinning as he holds out the DJ's headphones, clearly intent on showing him whatever he's been listening to that's made him so happy.

"Gotta go, buddy," he tells him, all too aware of the arm he's already slung across Shepherd's shoulders, and all too aware that it’s automatic, that it's not actually for show in case anyone (Joseph) might be watching, the way he wants to believe it is.

"Already?" Shepherd asks, sounding confused and let down and so much like a kid that Jack, for a moment, just wants to let him be, wants to leave him here, where he's clearly doing just fine. "I'm sort of okay here."

And Jack's not going to leave him behind, that's not the point of all this, but Jack can't be here anymore, so he's going to have to take Shepherd with him.

"You can do better," he says, looking at the DJ, and she's gorgeous, really, and she certainly seems friendly, but Jack needs to take Shepherd away now, and anyway, it's clear she wasn't going to get anything from Shepherd tonight so really, it's better for everyone if Jack takes him away and leaves the space open for someone else.

It certainly has nothing at all to do with the way Jack's stomach flips again when he catches sight of Shepherd's grin, wide and open and happy, or the sudden vertigo feeling of jealousy when he realizes that it's not really there just because of him.

  
  
  


He takes them to Claudia's, takes them behind the red velvet fucking curtain, because this place is so elite, always has been, and velvet ropes just aren't enough here, and Jack's ready to lose himself, ready to give in and go full-steam ahead, ready to nose-dive these boys right into the heart of his little world.

Shepherd's still grinning, beside him, and Jack doesn't think twice about slinging an arm around his shoulders again, pulling him in for a brief moment before letting him go to grab a shot from a passing girl, heading straight towards the bar with Shepherd leaning beside him and the rest standing, ranged around them like this isn't just Jack's party, like it's Shepherd's deal, too, like they’re in this together.

  
  
  


He honestly means for Claudia to show Shepherd a good time, only that, get him loose and smiling and laughing like he was before, make him feel like he's just a guy again, just a guy in a club with a beautiful girl and not a national hero with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.

He's pissed about Shepherd and Michelle, but he doesn't know why, except maybe it has to do with the fact that Shepherd really is a good guy who deserves more than the shit that Jack knows his family is going to drag him through, just like they've dragged him and Michelle through it. So maybe he wants to rough him up a bit, bring him down a bit, so that when his family tears him down he won't have too far to fall.

And then there's Joseph, and those words, those three stupid words that Jack never wanted to hear, and then Jack's blood is pounding in his ears, a little too close to the surface, so when the chance comes for a fight he goes for it, doesn't even care if he wins, because then if he goes a little crazy everyone will just think it's the slight, the insult, the drink and the drugs and not the way his heart is threatening to burst out of his chest, pounding and wrenching and his lungs aren't working and he doesn't know what to do.

But then there's Shepherd, pulling him away even though it's the only thing Jack wants, because Shepherd is a good guy. But right then Jack can't look at a good guy without seeing Joseph, and he doesn't want to ever be able to fit Joseph and Shepherd into the same place in his head.

So he lashes out, and it makes him angry that Shepherd won't lash back, but at least he has the sense to step back, to step away when it's clear that Jack isn't going to let this go, and Jack tries to ignore the way Shepherd's watching him, fear and concern chasing each other across his face, because Shepherd doesn't have the right to be scared for Jack, doesn't know him, doesn't know shit.

He watches Claudia take him out back, tells Ronny to get the pictures, because he's seen what happens to good guys, and maybe, maybe this isn't so much about anger as it is about hurting Shepherd a little before he gets far enough that the hurt is so much worse.

After, he makes sure his guys bring Shepherd back to his apartment and doesn't think about how automatic it was (even though he's sent Shepherd's friends off to a hotel, because he would never, ever bring them here), doesn't think about how he'd practically forgotten that he'd brought Claudia along with him, even though his whole plan had hinged on her doing her thing. But now he can't ignore that she's there, still clinging to Shepherd and Jack knows what he's told her to do, what he wants her to do, and he's glad it's out of his hands now because his blood is starting to cool and he's not sure he could tell her again.

"You have a good time, I do my job?" he asks, and he means it, really, which surprises him, and Shepherd laughs, says, "I don't know why you're being so nice to me," and Jack doesn't know, either, except that he does, except that he can't tell Shepherd, except that "We're in the same boat." And ain't that just the truth, if only Shepherd knew that half of it, both of them stuck on people and things they can never have, and maybe he should be feeling bitter about that, but he's tired and weirdly blissed-out and his head's still spinning from the drinks and the fight so he figures he'll worry about it later.

He passes out with a girl on either side and Shepherd’s muffled laughter coming up the stairs.

  
  
  
  
  


He wakes a little before sunrise and the bruises are hurting now, leaving his whole body aching, and the sick feeling in his gut is creeping back, leaving him melancholy and restless, and Shepherd's leaving, and Claudia says he turned her down, that he's in love, and there's those words again, and it hurts, it hurts more than it should, more than he thought it even could, and "He's not like you at all," Claudia says, "But it's okay, you always have me."

And he hates that she honestly believes it, that she really does think that he's that heartless, that he's fine with just fucking anyone who wants it and then leaving them in the dirt. Because yeah, maybe that's the reputation he's built, and maybe it's even on purpose more than it is by accident, but she's known him since they were practically kids, she should know better than that, but she doesn't, and it makes him furious and inexplicably sad.

So he lashes out, angry, and orders Claudia and her friend out because he can't stand the sight of them anymore, can't stand the thought that, for all he'd tried to do to bring Shepherd down where it wouldn't hurt so bad, he'd put himself right back up there, made it so he'd fall further and further.

Because now Jack knows it's for real, the way Shepherd just fucking  _ shines _ like he's lit up from the inside. And he knows Michelle will see it, knows it's impossible to miss, and it hurts because he knows it's inevitable now: that they'll raise each other so high that he thinks the fall will kill them both.

So he tells Ronny to release the photos, knows his mother will let them pass, knows Silas won't care so long as Jack's not in any of them, and hopes it will tear them both back down to earth, because while that will hurt like fuck, it's better than the alternative.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter! @mooninthesky :D


End file.
